


A Woman's Wit

by apliddell



Series: Your Many Tendencies [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A Scandal in Bohemia, Black Irene Adler, Black John Watson, Black Sherlock Holmes, F/F, Femlock, John is a You-Tuber, Lesbian Johnlock, Lesbian Sherlock Holmes, Non-binary character, Pre-Slash, Sherlock Holmes alternate universe, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson meet, Sherlock is a musician, Sherlock's Violin, UST, fem johnlock, me too, modern adaptation, stalking mention, vegetarian John Watson, vegetarian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-07-02 21:05:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15804558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apliddell/pseuds/apliddell
Summary: John Watson returns to London after a long absence, somewhat the worse for wear. She meets Sherlock Holmes, and starts feeling excited about life again.





	1. Chapter 1

“Just be careful what you wish for,” Steph said, waiting at the top of the flight of stairs as I ascended them behind her. 

 

“Why do you keep saying that?” I puffed. “Either tell me or don’t, but don’t be cryptic, for fuck’s sake!” I was promptly embarrassed of my snappishness, “Sorry.” My brittle health made my temper even brittler, and lately it seemed that half the time I opened my mouth, it was either to be rude or to apologise for rudeness, but my perpetually cheery friend Steph seemed not to notice it. 

 

“She’s just a bit odd is all. She’s nice enough so far as I know her, which really isn’t much. She can be a bit distant and abrupt sometimes, not the sort of person you can nip out for a drink with. If you wait a month, you can share with Jules. You remember Jules? With the ginger cats! Jules’ flatmate is emigrating at the end of-”

 

“I don’t  _ have _ a month, Steph,” I interrupted as we turned a corner into a dim, carpeted passage. “I’m nearly out of money, and then I’ll have to go and live with Dani, and one of us will murder the other. Properly murder with knives.” 

 

Steph shrugged, “All right well, I suppose if you don’t take to Sherlock, you can just move somewhere else after you’ve got your feet under you again. Here we are. Ooh, best wait a moment, though.” Steph had stopped me just outside a practice room. Through the glass panel in the door, we could see a tall figure swaying energetically, a stringed instrument clutched against one shoulder. 

 

“So she’s a music student?” I asked. 

 

Steph shrugged again, “Not really. I don’t think she’s actually still at this university. Can’t think how she keeps getting into the practice rooms. She’s quite clever, but she’s sort of cynical about formal education. She stopped attending lessons, but she still hangs about and uses the library and the music rooms.”

 

“Hm,” I watched her play. “Like Frankenstein.”

 

“What, the monster?”

 

“Never mind.”

 

Presently, the figure turned and, still holding the violin and bow, threw open the door. I looked for the first time into the handsome androgynous face of Sherlock Holmes. There was something a little anachronistic about her. Perhaps it was her unusual indigo suit, which contrasted beautifully with her dark skin so that both suit and person seemed to glow. Perhaps it was her button boots, which I've never seen another person wear. It could have been her meticulously styled locs with their glinting gold loc rings. It may have been the way she talked, which was always a bit clipped and formal. Even when she was obviously delighted. Whatever it was, Sherlock gave the impression of being a walking story.

 

“I think I’ve had a breakthrough!” she said, beaming all over. Her voice was much sweeter than I’d have expected. Sort of fluting. “Will you step in a moment and hear it? It’s been ages! You can’t imagine!” Sherlock nudged Steph’s elbow and walked backward into the practice room, raising her violin and bow. We followed her in, and Steph shut the door behind us. Sherlock Holmes nestled her violin against her shoulder and when she drew her bow across the strings, my skin prickled, and my ears rang with its joy. Sherlock practically danced in place as she played. Her feet stayed still, but the rest of her body rocked like a tree in high wind. 

 

The music did not go on long, and when it finished, I burst into applause. Sherlock went very still when I did and lowered her instrument slowly, her eyes on me, her expression mysterious. I felt a bit silly and dropped my hands. 

 

When I looked at Steph, she was grinning at me, “John Watson, this is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this uncharacteristically enthusiastic person is Doctor John Watson. We were at Bart’s together.” 

 

Sherlock Holmes stepped forward, “Pleasure.” She gripped my hand in strong musician’s fingers, “Tell me John, what is your favourite song?”

 

“Erm, what? Dnno. Depends on the context, doesn’t it? Why d’you ask?”

 

“Steph has brought you here to be my new flatmate, hasn’t she?” Sherlock looked at Steph expectantly, and Steph nodded. Sherlock began to pack her instrument away into its case and paused to make notes on a bit of paper sitting out on one of the stands. “I’ve just given up smoking, so that’s nothing. I generally have my research about, and sometimes that’s chemicals, but it’s always books and papers. No need to warn you about the violin, since we know you like that. Sometimes I go very quiet. People always think I’m sulking. I’m not sulking; I’m only recalibrating, and you mustn’t take it personally. And what about you? You must have something to confess.” 

 

“Confess?” I suppressed the urge to look at Steph again. Sherlock had her inky eyes fixed on mine and somehow I didn’t like to look away, “How do you mean, confess?”

 

“If we’re going to be flatmates, we ought to know the worst straight off, don’t you think?” Sherlock folded up the bits of paper and tucked them into the breast pocket of her jacket. 

 

“Oh! Er, let’s see. Well. Worst, I suppose is erm. I’ve been ill most of the winter, so I’m a bit of a wet blanket at the moment. Lying around with a hot water bottle, hogging the Netflix, and shushing people. And I’m a bit grumpy, I’m afraid. I’m another sort of annoying when I’m well, but those are my main faults at the moment. Oh and I’m a vegetarian, which isn’t a fault, though some people think it is.” 

 

Sherlock’s face went rather serious at my mention of my illness, and she nodded when I finished speaking, “I’m also a vegetarian. I’m a quiet sort of person most of the time, and I definitely won’t be offended by a good shushing. I’ve really got to run along now, but shall we go and see the flat together tomorrow? We should be able to afford it between us. The owner’s a dear, and never charges proper market rate in the rent,” the last delivered with a fond eye-roll. “Shall we meet there tomorrow around noon? It’s Baker Street. 221 Baker Street.” 

 

“Yeah, brilliant. Noon. Baker Street. See you there.” 

 

“Can’t wait,” and with a nod that was a little more like a bow, she was off. 

 

…

  
  


The rent for the flat on Baker Street was so shockingly low that I’d have jumped at it, almost no matter what the flat itself was like. But it was very comfortable, well-lit through a couple of large windows in the front room and furnished with rather old and faded but high quality furniture. There was a fireplace in the sitting room, which Sherlock and I were both delighted over. It was a split-level flat, and our bedrooms were up a narrow flight of stairs and on either end of a corridor, joined by a bathroom from the interior and a widow’s walk outside. 

 

“We can run a pair of tin cans and a piece of string along the widow’s walk for late night chats,” Sherlock deadpanned, when we saw it. I let out such a sudden and loud bark of laughter that I quite startled myself. She answered with a shy little giggle I’d never have expected of her. I moved my few things in that night, and Sherlock promised to follow the next day with hers. 

…

 

I woke the next day to a gentle tapping on my bedroom door, mid-morning sunshine streaming in through my uncurtained windows. I reached for my glasses and sat up, pulling the bedding to my chin, “Yeah?” I cleared my throat, “Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock answered cheerily through the door, “Good morning! I’m just doing breakfast, and I thought I’d offer you some. Do you eat eggs and dairy or are you a vegan?”

 

“Oh gosh. Er, thanks. Eggs and dairy are fine, but you don’t have to cook for me.”

 

“I’m not a barbarian John,” she called back, her voice fading as her footsteps retreated down the hall. 

 

I descended a few minutes later to find boxes in stacks all round the sitting room and Sherlock humming to herself in the kitchen as she poured coffee. She had a white apron with a small logo on the chest that read 'Eden' tied on over a sleek all-black outfit.

 

“Good morning! Your plate’s here.” I came into the kitchen and there was already a plate of fried eggs and toast with sliced strawberries on the table. Sherlock was plating another. 

 

“This is lovely.”

 

Sherlock smiled a little sheepishly, “I went to the shop and got some food this morning, but I totally forgot the jam.” She whipped off her apron and sat down across from me at the table.

 

I bit into a slice of toast, “Lovely.”

 

Sherlock held out the French press, “How do you take it?”

 

“Mm? Oh, just white.”

 

Sherlock tipped a bit of milk into my mug and added coffee, then poured coffee for herself, “I’m famished! Been up since five finishing with the packing.” 

 

“Since five!”

 

She raised her mug, “Number four.”

 

“Number four? That is a lot of coffee. It’s quite acidic; doesn’t it hurt your stomach?”

 

“Iron guts,” Sherlock answered, patting her stomach with her free hand and taking another sip of coffee.

 

“Sorry, I don’t mean to be so bossy.” 

 

Sherlock smiled at me over the rim of her mug, “I expect it’s a bit difficult not noticing things like that, as you’re a doctor.”

 

“Yes, a bit.”

 

She grinned, “It’s a good job I’ve given up smoking.”

 

“Well, good for your lungs!”

 

Sherlock only smiled and sipped her coffee. 

 

“How did you know I was a doctor? Did Steph tell you?”

 

Sherlock laughed, “Er, yeah. She introduced you as Doctor John Watson and since she also said you were at Bart’s together, I assumed she didn’t mean Doctor Watson, professor of art history or something.”

 

“Oh,” I laughed also. “Right, of course. Good recall.”

 

“Thanks,” Sherlock finished her coffee. “That’s sort of my thing.”

 

…

 

After breakfast, we arranged our things out in the living area. Our tastes did seem to overlap, and what little we did have blended well together. It was homely and comfortable anyway, even if our things were rather shabby. The flat itself was so handsome, I could scarcely believe we could afford it, even together. 

 

“You’re not paying more than your share, are you?” I accused suddenly, forgetting to wonder why a stranger would do something like that for me. 

 

Sherlock only shook her head, unruffled by my tone, “Nope! Ridiculously cheap, isn’t it. That’s Hudson for you. They put me up a few years back when I was having a bit of bad luck, and it’s set a horrible precedent. I practically had to twist their arm to make them take any rent at all.”

 

“Are the Hudsons a couple?”

 

Sherlock flashed me a very satisfied smile, “Not anymore. Hudson is one person. They just use gender neutral pronouns.” Sherlock’s face went serious, “Don’t mention their husband just casual when you meet them, will you? He really isn’t a funny story.”

 

“I won’t say a word,” I promised. “Is he dangerous? The ex?”

 

“Not anymore,” Sherlock repeated. “I expect you met your share of dangerous exes in your work. Did you?”

 

“A few. Definitely more than enough. Hang on. How’d you know about my work?” 

 

Sherlock smiled and pointed at my chest, “Your tee shirt.” 

 

I looked down at the logo, “Oh, right. I was about to accuse you of telepathy.”

 

Sherlock gave me a little shrug and a smile, “I must stop explaining myself. It’s so bad for my poor little reputation.” She hesitated, “Also, erm. I’ve seen your video channel. I recognised you at once, I’m still a bit erm. Starstruck actually.” 

 

“Oh.” I went a bit tongue-tied and embarrassed the way I always did when I was recognised out in the world. “You watched my show.”

 

“It’s brilliant! Really brilliant. Sorry. I’ll stop gushing now.” 

 

“It’s all right.” I shook my head, “Just feels a bit weird talking about it now the show’s ended.” Sherlock’s face fell, but she tried to school her features immediately. “I know people were really disappointed I stopped making the episodes, yeah. I’m just. I’m not practising at the moment, so it just feels really depressing to try and make them. I actually. I wrote a script for a goodbye video, but I can’t even shoot it.” 

 

Sherlock reached out and squeezed my elbow, “I’m sorry.”

 

I coughed. My voice had gone a bit wobbly, “It’s all right.”

 

Sherlock gave me another little squeeze, “Maybe you’ll find something else you want to talk about.” 

 

I shrugged, “Maybe.” 

 

Sherlock let go of my elbow, “I’ve got to run off to the library. I’m late for a thing. Be back for tea.” 

 

“Okay. I guess I’ll see about getting rid of all the boxes.” 

 

“Good idea,” Sherlock got up and pulled on a smart little bomber jacket. “If you’re thinking flatten them all and burn them in the fireplace when it’s chilly; I’ve tried that, and it doesn’t go terribly well.” 

 

I laughed, “I wasn’t, but I rather want to try it now.”

 

“They smoke. It’s the dust on them, I think. I meant to do an experiment on that last time I moved, now I think of it. Maybe I still will. Save me one?”

 

“Ha, er. Sure, if you like.” 

 

“Cheers,” Sherlock lingered a moment on the threshold, “See you soon. Text me if you need anything.”

 

“I don’t need anything. Text you how? I haven’t got your-”

 

“On the fridge. Doesn’t feel like home until you’ve got refrigerator magnets on the fridge, does it? Anyway. Got to run. See you tonight.” 

 

“Yeah,” I made a little wave. “Tonight. See you.” 


	2. Chapter 2

I must have dozed off on the sofa, because I woke with a start at a sharp tapping on the door. 

 

A muffled voice came through it as I sat up and wiped my smudged glasses on the inside of my tee shirt, “Sherlock? Are you decent in there?”

 

“She-” I cleared my throat against the sleepy rasp in my voice as I stumbled to the door and opened it, “She’s gone out, actually.”

 

Behind the door, I found a quite elegant looking person, dressed all in grey with a little silver stud in one ear.  Over one arm they held a canvas bag. They smoothed their perfectly greying hair with their free hand, and wandered into the flat as they spoke, “God, you startled me! I was looking for Sherlock, and I wasn’t expecting you until later on today. You’ll be Sherlock’s Doctor Watson? I only came round to leave the papers for the flat and a few little things from the shop. 

 

“Do you know the shop yet? Sherlock mentioned it to you? It’s called Eden, because it’s all vegan and organic. I’ve been a vegan since Meat is Murder! Before you were born, I expect. It was a good deal trickier finding things I could eat then, though it’s still quite difficult. Hence Eden! Are you vegan by any chance? No? Well, some don’t have the constitution for it. Sherlock did tell me you’re a vegetarian, and that’s something! More convenient, isn’t it? Living with other veges. 

 

“Say, do you like raspberries? We’ve just got these in, sunshine raspberries! Aren’t they lovely all pink and golden? Sherlock  _ adores  _ raspberries and raspberry jam. Jam’s a bit too much refined sugar for me these days. Funny how quickly you can lose your taste for sweets, isn’t it?”

 

For some reason here they paused to let me reply, “Oh er. I suppose I’m not much of a sweet tooth myself. You’re Hudson, right?”

 

They laughed, “That’s me, yes! Did I not introduce myself? I’m Hudson; I’m the owner. I live downstairs.” 

 

I offered my hand to shake, “Nice meeting you! Downstairs? Well we’ll try and keep it down.”

 

Hudson laughed again, “Oooh, you want to be careful promising to be quiet when you live with Sherlock.”

 

“She seems quiet enough to me.”

 

“Mm, I suppose it’s more that things tend to get noisy around her than that she’s so very noisy herself. Except for the violin! But you can’t really call that a noise, can you?” 

 

I shook my head, “I’ve only heard her play once, but it was lovely. Sherlock is really talented.”

 

“She is! She meant to be a professional musician--well she is one, isn’t she! But--oh shit, is that the time? Here’s me chatting the day away. Got to be off. Lovely to meet you. See you again soon, I’m sure. Kiss Sherlock for me!”

 

“Er, bye! Nice erm-” But they were off through the kitchen and down the back stairs. 

 

...

 

On my first night in my new home on Baker Street, I come in dying for the loo. Hurl my book bag at the hook by the door; shed my coat on the stairs, and accidentally flatten myself against the locked bathroom door. Damn. Forgot the flatmate could be in there. 

 

“John? Is that you?” 

 

There’s a long moment of silence, punctuated by some gentle splashing. My bladder constricts in sympathy or anticipation. “Let’s say it isn’t and see what happens,” John answers finally like she’s been thinking it over. 

 

“Think you might er. Finish this up soon? I really need the toilet and Hudson’s out.”

 

“You can come in, if you’ve got to,” John calls. “The door through my bedroom’s unlocked.” 

 

“Thanks!” Burst through John’s bedroom door and hurry past her unmade bed and a pool of discarded clothes into the bathroom. The bathroom is hazy and fragrant with lilac-scented steam, and John is an indistinct brown blur behind the frosted glass divider. She politely provides a bit of splashing while I relieve myself, and when I wash my hands, I hear the divider slide back a little ways. I turn to wipe my hands on the towel and find John watching me, her pointed chin resting on the crook of her broad, soft arm. 

 

Between the crown of golden box braids she’s piled on the top of her head and her bemused half smile, I rather have the sense I’ve interrupted some water spirit at her toilette. Her mouth widens into a proper smile when I meet her eye (such a lovely shape to them)(how’ve I never noticed before how lovely her eyes are?), “Just for future reference, Sherlock, when you’re listing things your flatmate ought to know about you, interrupts others in the bath is definitely something that belongs on the list.” There’s a flickering brightness down the other end of the tub. Where’d she even get a candle?

 

“Sorry,” I should be much more embarrassed, but that smile is so good-humoured that I can’t quite reach embarrassed. “I don’t imagine it’ll happen again. Are you a bubble bath person, John?”

 

She half shrugs, then straightens up slightly to show me a ripple of angry pink scar tissue stretched across her right shoulder, “Overdid today a bit, I think. My shoulder fucking kills. Can’t find my hot water bottle either. It’s very annoying.” 

 

“Oh.” There’s that embarrassment, then. “I’m really sorry, John. Erm. I’ll get out of your hair.” 

 

“See you out there, then,” John sinks back into the water, sliding the partition shut. Slip out through the door to my bedroom, feeling oddly breathless. 

 

…

  
  


“Are you cooking?” Sherlock dropped herself into a chair at the kitchen table and sniffed rapturously. 

 

“Just cheese toasties and oven chips, but I did put tomato and onion on the sandwiches. Tea? Or if you’d rather, I did venture out and get some wine.”

 

“You’re an angel,” Sherlock got up and had a wash at the sink. “I’m so starving lately. Hang on, did I miss lunch?”

 

“Do you not keep track?” I looked about me. “Have we got oven gloves?”

 

Sherlock patted her pockets and pulled out a little notebook and a pen, “Nope, don’t think so. I’ll pick some up.” She scribbled something in the notebook and tucked it away.  “There’s a tea towel on the hook by the kettle, though. Maybe use that?” 

 

I wrapped my hand in the towel and quickly pulled the pan out of the oven. My arm shook as I raised the pan, and I dropped it onto the worktop with a clang. 

 

“Oooh, did you burn yourself?” Sherlock was suddenly at my elbow, her dark eyes full of concern. 

 

“No, sorry,” I tried to keep my voice light, but there was a little tremble in it. “I forgot that’s the stupid hand.” 

 

“The stupid hand?” 

 

“Yeah, the right one’s stupid. Nerve damage. Occasional coffee on the shoes. It’s. Sorry, did we ever choose between the tea and the wine?” 

 

Sherlock began to look through the cabinets for plates, “Tea first, then wine? Tea in the kitchen, wine in the sitting room?”

 

“Sounds good.” 

 

After we’d eaten our dinner, we moved out to the sitting room. I stretched out on the sofa, and Sherlock took one of the armchairs near the fireplace. We’d just hardly got comfortable when Sherlock popped up out of her chair again and went bounding up the stairs to the bedrooms. She returned presently with a greyish something and went through to the kitchen, apparently to microwave it. After a chorus of beeps from the kitchen, Sherlock came back to the sitting room and held the thing out to me. I accepted it reflexively, rather starting when it landed in my hands. It was hot to the touch. 

 

“Sorry!” Sherlock said when I yelped in surprise. “It’s for your shoulder. You said you couldn’t find your hot water bottle.”

 

“Oh!” I looked more carefully at the thing. It was a heart-shaped grey pouch made of wool and stuffed with dry beans or rice or something. It smelled strongly of lavender and faintly of wet dog. I plonked the pouch on my aching shoulder, and delicious warmth spread through it. “Ooooh.” 

 

Sherlock smiled eagerly down at me, “Bit better?”

 

I nodded, “Bit better.”

 

Sherlock grinned and clasped her hands, “Good!” She returned to her chair, and I found the book I’d been reading in the sofa cushions, and we were quiet for a bit. 

 

After a while, Sherlock stood up and stretched, “I think we could do with a fire, John. I see you saved me a box. Shall we try burning it?”

 

I put my book over my knee, “Actually, I looked it up while you were away, since we’ve got a gas fireplace. Burning wood in a gas fireplace can cause erm. Explosions. Which. I’m not very fond of.”

 

Sherlock laughed, “I sort of wonder if it’d be the same with cardboard? But not worth trying the experiment.”

 

“No,” I said firmly. 

 

“Ah, well this is nice anyway,” Sherlock bent to light the fireplace, then turned her back to it and raised up her dressing gown for bum toasting. “Have you thought any more about your favourite song, John?”

 

I shrugged, “I don’t think I listen to violin-y sorts of music.”

 

“Oh violin is much more versatile than people think,” Sherlock said earnestly. “It’s like a human voice. There’s so much a good violinist can do.”

 

“Maybe some time you’ll show me.” 

 

Sherlock moved over to her music stand, “I was thinking of playing now, actually. If you don’t mind.” 

 

“No, not at all.”

 

“Stop me if you want titles,” and she picked up her violin and began to play. 

 

Sherlock’s music wasn’t anything that I recognised, but it was very affecting, nonetheless. It was louder than I remembered. It seemed to fill not only the room but my head and my chest, so that I felt filled up with it, carried away on it.  

 

When Sherlock finished playing, she left behind a thrumming stillness that neither of us seemed to want to break for a long while. 

 

“What was that called?” I asked, then cleared my throat against the rasp in my voice. 

 

Sherlock smiled down at her violin, “I know I said ask for titles, but I’ve a horrible habit of leaving them unnamed.”

 

“That was you?”

 

Sherlock bowed her head, “It was.”

 

“It’s gorgeous,” I said fervently. “It’s.” I groped for words, but nothing appropriate presented itself. “Thank you so much for playing it.”

 

“Thank you so much for hearing it,” Sherlock answered quietly. 

 

“Anytime!” I paused and continued at a more reasonable volume, “Anytime you want me in your audience, I’m there.”

 

Sherlock smiled and began to put away her violin, “Thank you, John. I’ll remember that.”

 

…

  
  


“Have you considered bereavement counseling?” Sherlock asked me one morning as I stared into my porridge like it was a crystal ball. 

 

I looked up at her, “I haven’t lost anyone.”

 

“You lost your vocation.” Sherlock poured herself coffee. “Feels a bit like losing yourself, doesn’t it? And you sleep all day. You’re depressed as hell. You should do something for it.”

 

I bristled, “My health is bad!”

 

“Yes, you’ve been ill, and you need your rest. And also you’re really depressed. It’s possible to have two things.” 

 

I snorted, “Suppose so.” 

 

“I know someone who does that. Counseling, I mean. Let me know if you want her number.” She finished her coffee and stood up from the table. “I’m going to-”

 

“The library,” I interrupted triumphantly. “Why do you go to the library so often?” Couldn’t you just use the internet?” 

 

“Library provides free access to reliable research databases, and librarians are specially trained in parsing information and ensuring it’s accurate. It’s a science. And I see clients there.” Sherlock put her breakfast dishes into the sink, “Would you like to walk with me to the tube?”

 

I squinted through the filmy kitchen curtains, “Looks pretty warm out there.”

 

“Weather report promises sunshine and breezes. I checked before I asked.”

 

“Okay, yes!” I stuffed a corner of toast in my mouth and burnt my palate washing it down with coffee. “Let me get dressed!

 

…

  
  


It was less than a quarter of an hour’s walk to the tube station, and I found myself wishing it were farther to walk when we arrived. Somehow, now Sherlock’d pointed it out, the prospect of lurking about the flat alone seemed really depressing.

 

“Shall I bring you something?” Sherlock asked before disappearing into the tunnel. “What do you read?”

 

“Hmm. Er. Cookbook?”

 

She raised her eyebrows, “A cookbook?”

 

“I’ve always meant to learn. Now seems like a good time to start.”

 

She smiled at me and gave my elbow a little squeeze, “Back soon.”

 

“See you later.” I hesitated a moment, and she gazed back at me expectantly. 

 

“Yes?”

 

“What sort of books are you getting?”

 

Sherlock cocked her head and answered with a trace of reluctance, “I’m trying to determine what sort of domestic toxins can easily be saturated in hand creme. Professional interest,” she added. “I don’t poison people recreationally.” And with that, she vanished before I could think of a reply. 


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock returned to the flat late in the afternoon, looking pensive. After hanging her coat and bag on the peg by the door, she came and sat down on the arm of the sofa down near my feet. 

 

Sherlock waited for me to mute the telly before she spoke, “I hope I didn’t offend you with my suggestion earlier. Advising people is a difficult habit to break. You know how it is.” She pulled a Kit Kat out of her pocket and offered it to me. “I apologise.”

 

I took the chocolate bar, “You were right.”

 

She shrugged, “I was rude. I’m sorry for my rudeness.”

 

“You weren’t rude. It was nice. Nice being noticed. Thanks.” 

 

I tore open the wrapping on the Kit Kat and broke off a finger, which I offered to her, “I’ll take that number whenever.”

 

Sherlock accepted the finger, “I’ll text it to you.” She pulled her locs into a top knot. I hadn’t noticed the undercut before, and I muffled the urge to run my fingers along the short fuzz on the back of her head. “I’ve got you your cookbook. How was your afternoon? Are you hungry for tea yet? I’ve spoiled your tea, haven’t I? I can’t resist an apology chocolate. Kit Kats are your favourite, right?”

 

“Er yeah, actually. How did you know that?”

 

Sherlock stretched in her chair and sort of wiggled her feet happily, “There was a cellophane bag in one of your boxes with a bit of curly ribbon tied round it and a load of Kit Kat wrappers in it. A gift! From when you were in hospital, I reckon. So I didn’t really know for sure, but not a bad guess, eh?” 

 

“Yeah, exactly right. My favourite.” I nibbled at another finger of my chocolate bar and opened my mouth to ask a question, but Sherlock spoke first. 

 

“I’ve actually got a bit more work to do, John,” she rose and hefted her bulging book bag. “And I’ve got to sort out a place to meet one of my clients this evening. She had to work late, and the library’s closed now.”

 

“Oh, you could do it here in the sitting room, if you like. I don’t mind.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Sure, it’s fine. I’ll just watch the Netflix in bed instead of on the sofa, ha.”

 

“You’re an angel!” Sherlock squeezed my elbow. “Pay you back in Kit Kats!”

 

“It’s fine. Suppose I’ll have tea now, then. Want anything?”

 

Sherlock shook her head and rubbed her undercut, “Nah, not just before seeing a client.”

 

“I’ll leave you something, then.”

 

Sherlock pressed a hand to her heart, “Angel!” She tucked the strap of her bag over her shoulder, “Sorry to run away from you, but I’m really up to my nostrils in research.” And off she darted, up the stairs to the bedrooms. 

  
  


“Er okay. Bye,” I said to the empty staircase. 

 

…

 

Things Sherlock Might Be (written by John Watson 27 Feb)

Tutor

Library student

Music teacher

?????

 

…

 

I came down from my bedroom rather later than usual one morning, still tired from having thoughtlessly scheduled a counseling session right after physical therapy the day before. I was in shit mood, made even shitter when I found that Sherlock’s breakfast elect was occupying both slots of the toaster. With a pointedly long-suffering sigh, I sat down at the breakfast table. Sherlock was nursing a cup of coffee, and her laptop was open on the table, sitting a little ways from her. 

 

“Mind if I check my email?” I asked, with my hand already on the computer. Sherlock nodded wordlessly, and I dragged her laptop to me. She had a dizzying number of tabs open in her browser, and instead of opening another to actually check my email, I ran my eye over the page that was up on the screen. 

 

“Utter crap,” I muttered after reading silently for a moment. 

 

Sherlock looked up from her coffee, “What’s crap?”

 

“This stupid blog post,” I gestured to the screen. “I suppose you’ve read it or mean to read it, since you bookmarked it. This guy reckons he can read people’s lives just from looking at them, ‘Cuffs, haircut, glasses, fingernails. It’s all there for a person who trains themself to look.’ It’s just cold-read pseudo-scientific rubbish! I’d like to stick him on the tube and watch all his little theories fall to shit, the wanker. I’d bet a hundred quid he couldn’t do half what he claims.”

 

“It isn’t psuedo-science or cold-reading.” Sherlock took a long sip of her coffee, “And you would lose your money.” 

 

“What?”

 

“Scroll up,” said Sherlock. “That’s my blog. I wrote the article myself. And my abilities are real enough that I depend on them to make a living.” She sipped again, “I’m a detective.”

 

“A detective,” I repeated, my head buzzing with embarrassment.

 

“Mmm, a consulting detective.” She set her mug down and fixed her bottomless eyes on me, “Certain sorts of people seem always to be treated unfairly, don’t we? Particularly by the justice system. Women, queer people, Black people, immigrants. People in trouble come and see me, and they tell me their story, and I tell them my opinion, and I collect a fee. Well, I’ll waive the fee if they really need me and they can’t pay. Sometimes a case is a little more complex, and then I have to bustle about and see things with my own eyes. That’s fun. I’m nosey, so I love investigating.”

 

“That. That’s really admirable,” I said. 

 

“Thank you. I got the idea of blogging about it from you, actually. But I’m a bit camera-shy, so I don’t film my posts,” Sherlock smiled a small smile, but it was so genuine that I felt a complete arse.

 

Couldn’t drop it though, “You really think you can tell that much about a person just by looking at them?”

 

Sherlock shrugged, “I really can. I’ve been doing it for years, John. I know what I can do.” 

 

I hesitated, “Could you show me?”

 

Sherlock grinned and bounced an eyebrow, “Sure.” She went into the kitchen and returned with a plate of toast, then went over to the window and beckoned me over. “Pick someone.” 

 

“What, down in the street? Can you read people from this high up?”

 

“A bit. Well enough for a little demonstration, I suppose. Pick someone.” 

 

“Okay.” I looked down at the passersby and pointed, “That guy.”

 

“Easy,” said Sherlock. “Ex-military. Haircut, boots. And that tattoo on his neck. Haircut and boots say military. Neck tattoo says formerly military, since that spot isn’t regulation for anyone still enlisted. Probably honourably discharged, since that seems to be an RAF crest, and people don’t tattoo bad experiences on their necks as a rule.” 

 

“Wow.” 

 

Sherlock grinned and leaned away to get her coffee from the table, “I did tell you, John.”

 

“You did, you did. Sorry. I was a shit, wasn’t I.”

 

Sherlock shrugged and waved, “It’s all right. People mostly don’t believe it, til they’ve seen it.”

 

“Can you do it again?” I asked. “That was really something.”

 

Sherlock bit into her toast and answered with her mouth full, “Sure.”

 

I pointed again, “That fancy one in the nice coat.”

 

Sherlock poked her chin over my shoulder to look out of the window and hissed in annoyance, “He’s coming to see me, and I  _ don’t  _ have time for this.”

 

“To see you? How could you possibly know that?” but she was already making for the stairs back up to the bedrooms. 

 

Our doorbell did indeed ring a few minutes later. I hesitated a moment, since I was still in my pyjamas, but Sherlock hurdled out of her bedroom fully dressed and clattered down the steps. She returned a few moments later with a rather smug young man in tow. 

 

He was tall, with wavy blond hair, a sprinkling of freckles that made him look very fresh-faced, and an impeccably fitted dark grey suit. 

 

“Excuse us interrupting your breakfast John,” Sherlock said rather pointedly. “Please don’t pay us any mind.”

 

“I could take my plate upstairs, if you need the room.”

 

“Not necessary; I’m sure Mycroft will be quick.”

 

The man grinned and smoothed his hair, “I do love it when you call me Mycroft. It makes me sound like your old school chum or something.”

 

Sherlock sighed, “John, this is my brother, James Mycroft. James, this is Doctor John Watson.”

 

“Enchanté,” Mycroft crossed the room and shook my sticky hand without waiting for me to offer it. 

 

I swallowed hard on a mouthful of underchewed toast, “Er, likewise.”

 

“Sorry to interrupt your breakfast,” Mycroft gave me a broad wink. 

 

I frowned, “It’s er. It’s fine. You’re Sherlock’s brother, are you?”

 

“The very same. I know what you’re thinking. We don’t look very much alike, do we?”

 

“Suppose not,” I muttered into the silence that followed. 

 

“Same dad, different mums. We’re about the same age, though. Right, sis?”

 

“Get a grip, Mycroft,” Sherlock said through her teeth. “No one asked.” 

 

“Why do you call your brother by his surname?”

 

“Everyone does,” said Sherlock. “Because we all know about a thousand guys called James. Did you want something, Mycroft?”

 

“Can’t you let me socialise for a moment?” Mycroft turned to me and stage-whispered, “She doesn’t like me, because I’m gay.”

 

Sherlock looked mortified, “Mycroft!”

 

He laughed and rolled his eyes, “Oh relax, she obviously knows I’m joking! Just like you to actually have a beautiful woman sat in your kitchen eating toast in her pyjamas at ten o’clock in the morning on a Tuesday, and act like there are any secrets in the room. We’re among friends, darling!” 

 

Sherlock pressed a hand to her temple and squeezed her eyes shut, “She’s my new flatmate, you pimple. Do you want to say what you need or shall I just save you the trouble and throw you out of my flat now?”

 

“Should I leave?” I offered again. 

 

“No, Mycroft’s going.” Sherlock looked at me, “You can go if you like, John. I won’t keep you.”

 

Mycroft got to business at that, “I actually did have something I wanted you to look into for me,” he said briskly. “We’re considering bringing in a particular individual for some, oh shall we call it contract work?” Mycroft glanced at me and gave me a tight smile. “Wil Von Kramm, not that his name would mean anything to you. But there have been some. Disturbing rumours about him and a certain young lady. This sort of behaviour is. A distraction. We’d like to determine if there’s any truth to what we’ve heard before we extend him an offer. 

 

“And as it turns out, the young lady in question is an old flame of yours, Sherlock! I was hoping you might speak to her and find out what’s what.”

 

Sherlock’s stone wall of an expression flickered, “An old what?”

 

“Flame? Are you unfamiliar with that turn of phrase? It means a former romantic interest.”

 

Sherlock sighed through her nose, “I meant who could you possibly be referring to?”

 

“Irene Adler, of course. Don’t you remember her?”

 

“Do I remember serving briefly as her accompanist five years ago? Of course I do. Where did you-never mind. You want me to contact an erstwhile professional acquaintance and ask her if she’s ever been sexually harassed by your guy?”

 

“He isn’t our guy, darling. That’s the entire fucking point. And I had imagined you’d use a bit more tact, but I’m sure you know best.” Mycroft’s smarmy smile returned, “We’d be ever so grateful, and the payout would be. Considerable.” He cast an insinuating glance around our cosy, shabby, mismatched kitchen. “Yes or no won’t quite do the trick, though. You need to find out if she’s got proof, and what it is in order to deliver absolute satisfaction.” 

 

Sherlock folded her arms, “Why would I do this?”

 

Mycroft opened his round eyes wide, “I’m sure you wouldn’t want someone like that  _ contracting _ with us, now would you? Disgusting. Think of the damage he could do. If it’s true, of course. At the moment, all we’ve got is second-hand information, though. You’d be doing such a good thing, Sherlock. And there is the money, of course.” 

 

Sherlock seemed to consider this, “I’ll need an advance.”

 

Mycroft smiled even broader, “That’s my girl.”

 

“Now, I meant,” Sherlock answered without unfolding her arms. 

 

“I know.” Mycroft reached into his jacket and pulled out a little pocketbook. He took out a folded cheque and waggled it at Sherlock, “That’s the first half. Second half when you’ve finished.”

 

Sherlock took the cheque and looked at it. One eyebrow went up, but she only put it in her pocket and nodded. 

 

Mycroft took an envelope from his pocket and passed it to Sherlock also, “We’ll want it wrapped up by the weekend. We’re to make an offer on Monday morning.”

 

Sherlock tossed the envelope on the kitchen table, “Yes, I’ll be finished by Thursday. I’ve a performance on Saturday, and I don’t want to be bothered with this while I’m preparing.”

 

“A show! Oh, you must send tickets, I’d love to go.”

 

“Can’t. John’s going, and I’ve given her my free one.”

 

She had done no such thing, and this was the first I’d even heard of her concert, “Yeah, I’m dead excited.”

 

Mycroft grinned at me, “Of course you are. Well, must be off. I’m sure I’ll hear from you very soon, Sherlock. Lovely meeting you, John. Cheerio.” And he was off, leaving the door ajar behind him. 

 

Sherlock kicked the door shut, then returned to the table and sat down across from me. She ripped open the envelope and shuffled the contents about a bit, “I wouldn’t generally take this sort of case, but Mycroft money pays a lot of fees for skint single mums.” Sherlock held a photo out to me, “That’s our man.” 

 

“Our man?”

 

“Well, in a manner of speaking! Oh. You meant. Well, I sort of thought you might want to do a bit of investigating with me? You seemed quite interested before.”

 

I did want to, actually. My curiosity was piqued. I hesitated, “Why would you want me?”

 

“Why shouldn’t I want you? You’re steady and clever, and that’s always helpful. And you’re an extra pair of hands, if I need them. And I could do with the company.” She looked right into my face at the last bit, and her expression was so hopeful that I smiled back at her automatically. 

 

“Well sure, if you want me, I’ll come.”

 

Sherlock gave me a broad smile, “Brilliant! Thanks!”


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock brought me to a fussy little tea shop in the Marylebone Road that was totally unlike her usual sensibility. We didn’t have to look about for her friend, because as we entered, a beautiful, broad, smiling woman sat at a corner table called across the shop in her flat American accent, “Sherlock! Over here!” As we approached, I could see that she was breastfeeding a baby. She brushed aside a springy coil of red hair when we reached her, upturned her face, and tapped her cheek with one finger, “You’ll have to come down here and kiss me, honey. Scuse me for not getting up, but if I disturb Tabitha’s lunch, she’ll scream bloody murder and get us all thrown out of this place.” 

 

“Hello Irene,” Sherlock bent and brushed a kiss on her, then straightened up to gesture to me. “Irene, this is Doctor John Watson. John, my old friend Irene Adler.”

 

Irene smiled at me and stroked her baby’s fuzzy head, “Oooh,  _ my  _ wife’s name is Jane! So nice to meet you, Jane.” 

 

“Er likewise. But it’s John actually. With an ‘o.’”

 

“Oh sorry about that, John.”

 

I glanced at Sherlock, “Quite all right.” Sherlock pulled out a chair and waited for me to sit down, then sat herself. 

 

“Do you have time to catch up, or do you have running around to do? It’s so good to see you! You look great!”

 

“Thanks,” Sherlock said. “So do you. I actually wanted to speak to you about something in particular. I’m doing some investigating for a contact of mine in the government, and I think you might know something about the case.”

 

“Saving the world again?” Irene asked, giving me a knowing little aside glance. 

 

“Well, bit by bit. I do what I can.” Sherlock took the photo of Von Kramm out of her breast pocket and held it out to Irene, “Do you know this person?”

 

Irene pulled a face, “Unfortunately.” 

 

Sherlock pulled out a little notebook and pen, “Do you mind telling me a bit about how you know him and why it’s so unfortunate that you do?”

 

“Sure. Oop, hang on.” Irene adjusted her blouse, then shifted the baby from her breast to her shoulder and winded her. “Let’s see. I knew him slightly years ago. I met him stage door at a performance of mine. This was back in New York, and he was okay then. A little intense, but some people are at stage door, yknow?” 

 

Sherlock nodded, making notes in her pad, “Go on.”

 

“Well it was a run of a few weeks, and he kept showing up at stage door and he’d bring flowers and little presents, and it was weird yknow, but it wasn’t terrible. But then he started claiming he was in love with me, and that was pretty terrible. I stopped doing stage door then. I tried to have him banned, but he was a big donor to the theatre, and they didn’t want to offend him. They thought he was romantic, can you believe?”

 

“Disgusting,” Sherlock agreed. “Can you tell me what sort of things he sent you?”

 

Irene dandled her baby gently, “Yeah, at first it was stuff to the theatre, teddy bears, flowers, champagne, jewelry, things like that. Then when the show was over, he mainly sent things by email. Er. Drawings of me. That was weird. Selfies. And what he called tributes. Videos of him playing my songs from the show on his guitar. Really weird. And then he started hanging around my house, and I was able to get a restraining order. So I don’t hear from him much anymore. Every once in a while, he’ll send me something about how he forgives me, he still loves me, blah blah blah.” 

 

Sherlock was nodding, a sympathetic grimace on her face as she scribbled in her notebook, but she looked up suddenly, “Hang on, did you say restraining order?”

 

Irene nodded, “Yeah, that was about two years ago now.”

 

“But that’d be public record,” Sherlock muttered, frowning deeply. “It’d definitely be public record, and he-” She paused, “Do you have any of the photos or videos he sent handy, by any chance?”

 

Irene pulled out her phone, “Yeah, I have an evidence folder on my phone.” She tapped the screen briefly, then held it out to Sherlock. 

 

Sherlock scrolled through the photos in silence for a few moments, then her face lit and her head snapped up. “Interesting room he’s in, don’t you think? He seems to always send the photos and the singing videos from the same sort of room. Like a little study or an office maybe.”

 

Irene peeped over Sherlock’s shoulder, “I hadn’t really thought about it, but it does seem to be the same room every time.”

 

“I think it’s the room and not the man, well not the man exactly, that’s made your evidence such a feature of interest.”

 

Irene cocked an eyebrow, “Really? The room? It’s just a dingy old office, from what I can see.”

 

Sherlock spread her fingers on the screen of Irene’s phone to expand the image, “See this dry erase board in the background? There are symbols on it.” She swiped, “See how they change from picture to picture?” She swiped again, “We’ve got, what two dozen pictures here over six months? I think what we’re looking at is a secret code, and I think that’s what my government contact is interested in.”

 

“Amazing!” I interjected reflexively.

 

Sherlock looked at me, “What is?”

 

“You are!” I was rather embarrassed to have Irene and Sherlock look at me so surprised, but I pressed on anyway, “You look at a handful of photos for all of ten seconds and work out that you’re actually seeing some sort of secret code? That’s. That’s amazing.” 

 

Sherlock positively glowed, “I haven’t even cracked the code yet.” 

 

“I’m with John,” Irene said. “You’re amazing!” 

 

“Well. Thank you.” Sherlock tucked her chin in and made a modest little cough, “Anyway. Erm. Irene, if Von Kramm bothers you again, my contact would be more than happy to frighten him off, in exchange for these photos.” Sherlock took out her wallet and extracted a business card, “Here’s his card. That’s erm. That’s quite a secret phone number, so do look after it.”

 

Irene squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder, “Thank you so much, Sherlock! You’re the best!”

 

Sherlock seemed about to demur, “I really-”

 

“You really are,” I interrupted firmly. 

 

Sherlock tucked in her chin again, “Well. I suppose that’s. Settled then.”

 

…

 

“Wait, so tell me again how you managed it?” John asks over the top of the book she had been pretending to read, while we wait for Mycroft to turn up and collect his documents. 

 

“Hmm? Oh, the case?”

 

“Yeah,” she splays the book on the arm of her chair and drags it a little closer to mine, eager attention shining all over her face.

 

“Well.” I consider. It’s harder sometimes to explain how you know than it is to just know, “Frankly, the whole thing was a bit out of character for Mycroft to begin with, unfortunately. He’s more of an ends justify the means sort of person.” Pause so that we can both grimace over that, “So I was rather on my guard. And it seemed too easy a thing to discover also. When Irene mentioned the restraining order, I knew the information Mycroft was looking for couldn’t be just a confirmation that Von Kramm had harassed Irene. 

 

“He asked for evidence, though, if you remember. So what of that? Well, it must have been something specific to the evidence she’d offer, when I spoke to her. He was also quite anxious that I speak to her personally, not just look for oh newspaper articles or some such instead. So I reckoned she must have in her possession, something about Von Kramm that appeared to be only evidence that he’d harassed her, but was actually something else. Once I looked at the photos Irene showed us, I saw that the photos were just of Von Kramm himself and a bit of background. The only thing in the background was that board. And when I’d looked carefully at it, I saw it was covered in groups of symbols. The same symbols, but different patterns in each picture. That suggests a coded language, where each symbol corresponds to a letter so that the groups spell out words.” 

 

“Wow!” John shakes her head, “You got all that from a few blurry photos of a shirtless bloke flexing in front of his webcam!”

 

Can’t help smiling at that, “I see things, because I’m used to looking for them. Anyone can do it, if they try.  _ You  _ know; you’re a doctor. I diagnose. It’s similar. I imagine.”

 

John looks rather serious at the mention of medicine, “Hmm. It doesn’t feel the same to me. I don’t think I could do it.”

 

Eagerly, “Of course you could! I’ll help you learn, if you like.”

 

John shakes her head and sits back in her chair a bit, “I’d rather watch you.”

 

My face goes a little warm, and I shift in my seat, “I would. That. I would be fine with that.”

 

We’re quiet for a bit, then John snorts. Look up at her, “What?”

 

“What sort of knobhead takes his stupid sext photos in front of his top secret code, anyway? Can’t believe he’s got that far as a. Secret agent?”

 

“Goes to show what he thinks of Irene, mm? She’s just a sort of. Sexy lamp to him. He can’t imagine that Irene thinks or feels or even speaks to other people about what happens to her. Too many men are like that about women, you know?”

 

John’s derisive smile fades into a sort of solemn disgust, “Yeah. I do know.”

 

“Irene’s got the upperhand now, though. Over Von Kramm as well as Mycroft.”

 

“There’s that at least,” John agrees, brightening up a bit. “What are you going to tell Mycroft about the case?” 

 

“Oh, that’s my second favourite part!” Grab for a folder on the side table and hand it to John. 

 

She flips it open and frowns down at it, then looks up at me, “What is it?”

 

I grin at her, “You know those services they advertise on telly, where you pay a few quid and they give you a rundown of publicly available information? Like you can find out if your child minder’s ever been arrested or what have you? I just put Von Kramm’s information into one of those, and printed out the bit about Irene having a restraining order against him and threw in a few newspaper clippings from when he was arrested outside her house.”

 

John bursts out laughing, “Oh my god!”

 

“Yeah, and the best bit is that he’s already agreed to pay me another five grand for the information!” 

 

John’s mouth falls open, “Ten thousand pounds for an afternoon’s work?!”

 

Feel rather embarrassed at that, “It does sound like silly money, when you put it that way, doesn’t it? If I’d actually coughed up what he was looking for, it’d be worth way more to him. But if he admits that this isn’t what he was looking for, he’ll also have to admit he was trying to play me. And this gets me by, while I do really important things. Helping people who actually need it. And playing music. Not much money in that for me, I’m afraid.” 

 

John’s eyebrows shoot up, “That. Wow. You’re. You’re fucking brilliant. You’re really a proper genius.” 

 

Shrug, “I’m a younger sibling. We’re crafty.”

 

John stretches out a leg and taps the toe of her loafer against my oxford, “Hey. Learn how to take a compliment. I said you’re a fucking genius, and I meant it.”

 

“Actually, you said I’m a proper genius.”

 

John laughs, “Now you say it.”

 

“Say what?”

 

“I, Sherlock Holmes, am a proper fucking genius.”

 

I laugh, “I, Sherlock Holmes, am a proper fucking genius.”

 

John beams at me, “Brilliant.”


	5. Chapter 5

**_Accessibility Transcript of the 49th episode of The Doctrix is In (originally uploaded 3 March) provided courtesy of themoonlovesthesea._ **

 

_ John is sitting in a chair in a bedroom in front of a wall-mounted bookshelf. She has a heart-shaped heating pad on her right shoulder, and she smiles and waves to the camera with the opposite hand as the video begins. _

 

Hello everyone! I’m John, and welcome back to another episode of The Doctrix Is In! As usual, please see the notes for the disclaimer. (Disclaimer reads: While I am a licensed medical doctrix, I am not your doctrix; please see your own medical professional for advice specific to your life and your health.) Okay so. It’s been a long time since I’ve posted anything here. I was involved in an incident that I’m not going to get into here and now, but as you see (John gestures to the heating pad on her shoulder) it seriously injured my shoulder, which still gives me a lot of trouble. I also had some unpleasant complications which had me mostly bedridden for a few months, but blagh! I’m making myself sad! I don’t want to talk about that stuff, sorry. (John closes her eyes and takes several meditative breaths, in through her nose and blowing out through her mouth.)

 

Anyway, I haven’t been practising medicine since my injury, which is more sad stuff. I really loved my work, and I’m honestly heartbroken that I haven’t been able to continue in the way I expected. I hope I’ll be able to practise medicine again soon, when I’ve recovered a bit more. While medicine itself is really fascinating and exciting to me, what I’ve missed most is being able to help people. It’s one of my strongest urges, helping people, particularly women of colour, who often get the short end of the stick in terms of how our bodies and health problems are perceived and handled by those in healthcare. For me, practising medicine was, is, an issue of not only compassion, but of justice. No justice without compassion, I think. It made me miserable to think I had to give that up, and it’s why I haven’t been here in so long. Not even to say goodbye. I couldn’t face people who needed me, when I was so unable to help you.

 

Well! I’m not here to say goodbye; I’m here to say. I’ve met a very special person recently, who helped me to see that medicine isn’t the only thing I can do to help people who need help and to bring compassion and justice to people who are typically underserved and mistreated by institutions. I can’t really say more about that, because of, ha ha, the Official Secrets Act, but I’m sure I’ll have interesting things to tell you soon. That tends to be the way it goes for Sherlock. That’s her name. My new friend. She’s called Sherlock, and she’s brilliant. There’s a link to her blog in the notes, so do take a look at her website and see for yourself all the amazing things Sherlock can do! (web address as linked in the notes is holmesinvestigations.co.uk) If you’re in a spot, Sherlock will sort you out, no problem. 

 

I also want to say that if you’re like me, and you’ve recently lost something important to you or you have been feeling lost and helpless for other reasons, please take your own suffering seriously. Please take your life seriously, and get some help processing it and coping with it. You deserve to be as well as you can be. 

 

Well thank you so much for watching! Hopefully we’ll have something slightly longer, or at least more educational next time! Maybe I’ll have Sherlock on, and she can teach us all something! As ever, I’m John, and this has been The Doctrix is In!

 

…

 

In a sort of post-concert funk. The show itself went well. John came and brought me flowers, which was delightful. Still, feels a bit off not to be rehearsing or researching for something in particular. 

 

Am lying on my bed in a sort of tangled blanket cocoon, idly scrolling through a study about soil chemistry without really absorbing it when my email alert chimes. Open the tab and nearly fall off my bed in surprise when I find a subscription alert for John’s video channel. Watch the video through, squirming in impatience to have it all in my eyes and ears and mind. The sound of my own name toward the end makes me squeak in shock. Watch it through again, then get up and stride up and down my room, flapping and wringing my hands.

 

After a few moments’ pacing, I open my bedroom window and climb out of it onto the widow’s walk, still wrapped in the blanket from my bed. John’s head whips round when I tap on her window, her golden braids swinging about her. She laughs at the sight of me, opens her own window, and climbs out onto the widow’s walk next to me. She’s only got on her pyjamas, and gooseflesh is already rising on her neck in the cold dusky air. Untangle my blanket a bit and hold one draped arm out in invitation. John steps forward at once, slotting herself against my outstretched arm and wrapping the trailing blanket about her shoulders. 

 

John makes a little sigh once she’s comfortably situated, “Hello Batman.”

 

Fancy I can feel the vibrations of her voice in my skin, the way I can feel the warmth of her body. I am maybe taking too long to answer. Damn. Difficult to card through all the sensations and bring the right words to the surface.

 

“Batman?”

 

“You’ve got the hood thing and the cape,” John tugs gently on her edge of the blanket. “And you’ve turned up outside my window. For a chat, I suppose?”

 

Turn my head away to hide my stupid grin, then squeak in surprise a moment later when I feel John’s finger in my side. 

 

John giggles, then quickly rubs the spot she’d prodded, “Sorry Batman. Didn’t mean to be rough. Anyway, I’m all ears.”

 

“You’re all ears?” Stupid question. Slow brain. Still too many feelings. Obviously John wants to know why I’ve turned up outside her window, “You said my name.”

 

John laughs, “You’re actually Batman? Somehow I’m not surprised.”

 

Prod back at John, and she answers with a squawk and grabs and holds my finger. Little thrill of warmth and maybe a bit of something else when her skin touches mine, “In the video, I meant. You said my name. You mentioned my website, and you said my work is amazing.”

 

“Oh.” John tosses her head with an affectedly careless little smile, “You do watch those, don’t you. And your work  _ is _ amazing. I stayed up all night going over all your writing after your show. It’s sort of why I. Well. I had something important to talk about again, and I wanted to talk. I. It’s good to feel properly awake again.”

 

“I’m a subscriber, actually. To your channel, I mean. Email alerts.” 

 

John smiles, bites her lip, lowers her chin, “That’s really flattering.”

 

“You’ve got loads of subscribers. I’m just a face in the crowd.” 

 

John opens her mouth, then shuts it, turning her gaze out to the skyline. She pushes her glasses up her nose, “Beautiful sunset.” 

 

I look also and so feel rather than see John shiver and huddle deeper into the blankets, then edge closer to me. Inhale slowly to bolster myself--little whiff of mellow fragrance from John, cocoa butter?--and rub her arm briskly through her pyjama sleeve. John relaxes against me, lays her head on my shoulder, and for a moment, the whole world is John’s radiant warmth, and the pressure of her touch, and the sweetness of her reflexive affection. 

 

“Yes,” I agree belatedly. “Beautiful.”


End file.
